Chapter 5
Gervaise doubled over laughing the instant Thisbe left the house. What an archwife—and utterly delectable as she scolded him. He’d reveled in her loose hair about her shoulders last night, and now he appreciated how it framed her sweet face under the bonnet.
She was right on one count. He’d heard the door but couldn’t risk being recognized by Lily or Lady Best. On the other hand, she was wrong about Dolman. He would have to get over his shyness or live a lonely life. What he needed was a woman, preferably a wife.
A good loving wife was a lifetime comfort to be wished for—and Gervaise did wish for one for himself as well—but if all he did was make the lady uncomfortable, what was the point?
And uncomfortable she would surely be, unable to understand his inability to behave like a man who had never been a spy.
If she could forgive his having been a spy in the first place.
Mrs. Rose was right about his needing a bath, though, with the result that he was clean as a whistle and even wearing a clean if shabby gown by the time she came home.
He’d been watching for her. Hoping she’d enjoyed herself with Lady Best, and that friendship with her would mean introductions to more ladies of the area.
If she had friends, he would no longer feel responsible for her and therefore would be free to leave.
The wager was almost over, and he couldn’t remain and risk her reputation.
He had to move on to some other disguise, some other persona to keep himself busy and mostly alone.
She all but pranced down the steps of the carriage, turned for a word of thanks and a cheerful wave goodbye, and then hurried up the stairs and opened the front door. He barely had time to back away and pretend he was just coming from the kitchen.
She danced in, beaming with happiness. With utter joy.
Gervaise stood transfixed, for all at once he knew who she was—the most beautiful girl at the ball.
It was the last occasion he’d attended before being smuggled to the Continent to spy for England, the country of his ancestors, against France, the country of his other ancestors.
Not that this was unusual; the upper classes of the two countries were much interrelated.
However, he felt himself to be both patriot and traitor, and it tore him up inside.
Mrs. Rose halted. “Evening, Mrs. Wix! What have we for dinner? We had tea and cakes at the Old Oak Inn, but I’m sure I shall be ravenous soon.” She paused, blinking, as he simply stood and stared at her flushed cheeks, her rosy lips, her sparkling eyes. “Mrs. Wix?”
He pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “Yes, missus,” he croaked, hopefully enough to disguise his voice, for he wasn’t as prepared as he should be. “Chicken and the last of the sorrel, and after that a blackberry pie. Shall I take your packages?”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Rose said, “it’s only ribbons and needles and such. I’ve been invited to an assembly in Brighton, so I must get to work preparing my evening gown.”
“Invited? By whom?” Damn, he was making a mull of this. Mrs. Wix never used the word whom. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let her go jaunting off with just anyone.
“Lady Best. She and Sir Simon will fetch me in their coach and bring me home. Isn’t she the kindest lady ever? And Miss Transom, too. I believe I met her brother once, many years ago, shortly before I married Mr. Rose.”
Indeed you did, thought Gervaise, but evidently he hadn’t made much of an impression on her, if she’d succumbed all but immediately to some rake or other and been forced to marry Eddie Rose so soon afterwards.
Not that he could have married anyone at the time. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think in such terms. He was a spy—a ghost—and like Eddie, would likely die. Except that unlike Eddie, he hadn’t.
“I took a bath, missus,” he said.
* * *
“Excellent,” Thisbe said. “Doesn’t it feel better to be clean?”
“Aye, missus, much better. I’ll go finish the supper, shall I?” She returned to the kitchen, and Thisbe hurried upstairs. It would soon be dusk, so she wouldn’t get much done tonight, but at least she could put her purchases away and refresh herself for dinner.
Five minutes later, a loud, determined knocking sounded on the door.
Hopefully, Mrs. Wix would answer it, but perhaps not. However obliging she’d been about bathing, she might not answer the door, and nor would Sergeant Dolman. Quickly drying her face, Thisbe went down the stairs. Mrs. Wix, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.
She peered out the window and saw three men—a Customs riding officer and two others. The riding officer snapped his crop impatiently against his breeches, and one of his men pounded on the door again.
How ghastly! They must have realized that someone in league with the smugglers had decoyed them from here.
Would they arrest Mrs. Wix? Thisbe couldn’t let that happen.
She turned away from the window, meaning to run to warn her, when the door flew open.
“Halt!” the officer shouted. “Come back here, woman!”
Thisbe turned, and Eddie’s ghost marched up beside her, stern and forbidding—which was kind of him but useless, since they couldn’t see him. Well! If she had learned one thing from her father, it was how intimidating haughtiness could be.
“I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed, nose in the air. “Who do you think you are, bursting into my house without so much as a by-your-leave?"
The officer stiffened, but amended his tone somewhat. “Your house, miss?” Not nearly respectful enough.
“Yes, indeed! I am Mrs. Rose, the owner of this house. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Lieutenant Miles, Customs’ Land Guard,” he said. “You don’t look old enough to own anything, much less a house. We were told no one lives here.”
“No one did until yesterday, when I arrived to take possession. How dare you speak to me in such an impolite fashion? I shall report your behavior to Sir Simon Best. His wife is a friend of mine.”
He frowned at that but didn’t back down. “No one lived here?”
“Only a few servants, and I fail to see what business it is of yours!”
“Oy, what’s going on here, missus? Sorry, I was picking rosemary for garnish, like.
” It was Mrs. Wix. “What’s this, now? Oh, revenuers.
” She made one of her nasty chomping noises.
“Nosy sorts.” For a second, Thisbe wondered if Mrs. Wix would spit, which would not help at all. If only she had stayed away!
“With reason, my good woman.” He turned to Thisbe again. “We believe this house is being used by smugglers.”
“To store contraband? Nonsense!” Thisbe said. “I went over the entire house yesterday from attics to cellars, and there’s nothing but dust, mildew, and broken furniture.”
“Aw, missus, it ain’t that bad,” Mrs. Wix whined. “I kept the drawing room nice, didn’t I? And the dining room, too.”
“Yes, yes, there are a few decent rooms,” Thisbe said, imagining herself in the role of an unsympathetic mistress. “Don’t start weeping on me again. I’m sure you’ve done your best.”
“Nevertheless, ma’am,” the lieutenant said, “someone was signaling from here last night.”
“Signaling to whom?”
“To the smugglers, obviously, and if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t your cook here, who was it?”
“You must be mistaken,” she said, thinking furiously. She couldn’t let them arrest Sergeant Dolman, either. “Only Mrs. Wix and I were in the house, both of us fast asleep…” A brilliant notion descended on her. She clapped her hands to her face. “Oh, my heavens—so that’s what it was last night!”
She sank onto a chair. “It does make more sense than ghosts, doesn’t it, Mrs. Wix?”
“Mayhap it does,” Mrs. Wix said grumpily, “leastways this time. Mark my words, though, this house is haunted. Everybody knows that.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” the revenue officer snapped. “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Rose.”
“I was wakened by a horrid shriek in the middle of the night,” Thisbe said.
One of the other revenuers nodded glumly.
“Did you hear it too?” Thisbe asked him, infusing sympathy into her voice.
“Not last night, but a couple of nights ago. Chilled my bones, it did.” He glanced sheepishly at his superior. “To tell the truth, I was right glad we was ordered not to go in alone.”
“Yes, it was dreadful, wasn’t it?” Thisbe said.
“At first, I thought it was only a nightmare—since my husband died in battle, I am subject to simply ghastly dreams—but then I heard a board creak in the attic. I peered out into the gallery, but it was pitch dark, so I thought it must be the house settling, as old houses do at night.”
“And?” the lieutenant asked eagerly.
“I was about to shut my door again when I heard footsteps, and I called out, ‘Who’s up there?’ I was frightened, Lieutenant, but this is my house, and no one has the right to be here without my permission.
I called for Mrs. Wix and was about to go up and tell the intruder to leave, when a man came positively hurtling down the stairs.
He almost knocked me over and kept on down, then shoved poor Mrs. Wix out of the way and disappeared into the night, leaving the door wide open.
” She shuddered. “Mrs. Wix made sure all the doors were bolted, but I hardly slept the rest of the night.”
“Poor lamb,” the housekeeper cooed, putting an arm around her. Mrs. Wix smelled beautifully clean. And…distracting.
“Did you recognize the man?” Lieutenant Miles asked.
“Of course not!” Thisbe tried to ignore the strange distraction.
“It was pitch dark, Lieutenant, and I don’t know anyone here.
It wasn’t one of my servants, though. It was a smallish man, and my man-of-all-work is too big and too old to run down stairs like that.
It must have been a smuggler, just as you said. But why would he signal from my house?”